The trial
by Oldmanred
Summary: Or how it should have gone. Mild x-over


"A champion? You?!"

The old man merely sipped his wine. A Dornish red, with notes of pepper in the bouquet.

Tyrion stared at him. The man was large, no doubt (though, he thought bitterly, he could say that of anyone older than twelve) and looked strong, but still...

_Selmy was old, but still feared_, he thought. But Ser Barristan Selmy had been Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and was known to be the finest swordsman alive, excepting Jaime. This old man was an unknown. Perhaps he had fought as a sellsword on some forsaken shore. But to fight as a champion...

"You will forgive me for being sceptical. But I am not willing to place my life in the hands of a... stranger."

The old man smiled. "Good thing you didn't mention my age, laddie. You're small enough as it is and I'd hate to make you smaller."

Tyrion stiffened, but the old man ignored him. "I've seen more battlefields than you could count, laddie. Fought all across the world. You want to live? Then you put your life in my hands."

Tyrion's mouth opened, ready with a quip, but then he caught the man's eyes and held his tongue. His eyes were cold and blue, and held a promise of death.

"Very well," he stammered. "You will fight as my champion."

The tourney field was packed with lords and ladies, maids and servants, squires, whores and smallfolk. All had come to see the trial.

Ser Gregor Clegane, seven-foot tall and clad in heavy plate, stood in the centre of the field. His shield had been hastily repainted to carry seven stars, but the colours of his house showed underneath. His greatsword was a monstrosity of black steel, but still razor-sharp.

In front of him, the old man looked smaller, almost frail, despite his frame. His armour was light - a helmet, a mail jerkin, two heavy shoulder guards, a pair of gauntlets. He bore neither sword nor shield.

The septon gave his blessing, then motioned the champions to their respective sides. Tyrion waited for the old man. "What is your plan?"

The old man smiled without humour. "Was never one for plans, laddie. He's a big lad, but we'll cut him down to size."

"We?" Asked Tyrion.

The old man took his axe. "Aye, we. Now step back. You won't want to be too close to this."

Tyrion felt his terror rising. An axe? The old man planned on facing the Mountain with an axe? Jaime had told him countless times. Axe against sword is a fool's choice. A good swordsman will win every time.

The old man took the axe and closed his eyes. He murmured something that might have been a prayer. Tyrion struggled to listen, but all he heard was "... thoughts of gain to lead you into pursuit of evil." The old man was mad, and him too, for agreeing to this folly._ I should have listened to the Red Viper_, he thought. The old man had finished his prayer, and strode out to meet the Mountain.

With every step he took, he seemed to grow. It was almost as though the years fell away from him, the weariness, the weight, all faded to nothing. The field was silent as he strode up to the Mountain. "Are you prepared, laddie?" the old man asked, his voice colder than a blizzard. The Mountain laughed. "Prepared for what, you fucking whoreson? I'm going to gut you like a fish. And when I am done with you I will find everyone you have ever known and butcher them like fucking pigs."

The old man smiled contemptuously. "Don't tell me - show me!"

Gregor charged, swinging his sword in a murderous arc. The old man was utterly still, then suddenly moved, side-stepping the blow and bringing his axe round in a blur. The blow caught on Gregor's gauntlet so hard the sword flew from his grasp. Somehow, the old man used the rebound to strike at Gregor's head, crushing the visor and sending him backwards ten paces.

The old man picked up the sword and hurled it at his opponent. It crashed into Gregor, staggering him again. "You lost something, laddie. I'm not one to kill an unarmed man". Gregor snarled and threw his shield aside, then removed his ruined helm. He picked up the greatsword with two hands and launched himself at his opponent. Once, twice, three times he swung, his blows deflected by the old man's axe. On the third swing, the old man countered by punching Gregor in the face. The Mountain spat out a tooth, then came again.

His third charge bore results. The old man was overpowered by Gregor's ferocity, and lost his grip on his axe, but at the same time Gregor lost his sword. The two fighters were locked in a struggle, but here Gregor's youth and strength would win out. He could feel the old man's strength giving way and knew victory was his to grasp...

Suddenly the old man threw his head forward and brought his helm down on Gregor's face, then again and again. The crack as the Mountain's nose shattered was like thunder. Enraged, Gregor released his grip to throw a punch, only for the old man to use the gap to throw a sudden combination of his own, forcing Gregor back.

Gregor spat a mouthful of blood and retrieved his sword. The old man had his axe again. "Who are you?!" Gregor screamed.

The old man smiled. "Monsters like you don't deserve to know."

Suddenly, the old man charged. Gregor was taken by surprise, but reacted well to deflect the first blows. The old man kept coming, swinging his axe at the head and body of his opponent. Gregor parried with his greatsword, waiting for the moment to strike back. All axemen had only a few patterns. He felt the rythyms and saw his chance as the old man began a combination. In his mind's eye he could see the result. The swing would miss, the old man would be overextended, and the Mountain's counterstroke would take his arm off clean...

The moment never arrived. A hot wave of pain burst through his temple. At first Gregor couldn't understand it. Had someone thrown a rock? No, a rock couldn't have done this. Did the old man punch him again? No, if he could hit that hard he would have done so earlier. He tried to see where his enemy has gone, then realised the old man was in front of him. Somehow he had gotten taller. The old man now towered over him, leaving Gregor feeling like a child looking up at a man. He realised that he was on his knees. He tried to speak, but no words came. His sword had fallen to the ground and his arms would not move. The old man was saying something, but he couldn't understand it. All he could do was watch as the axe came up, then swung down.

Tyrion was awestruck. The old man had somehow used his axe to thrust into the Mountain's unprotected head. Gregor fell to his knees, his body no longer obeying him.

The old man was speaking. "I see you put dogs on your shield. Good creatures, dogs. Loyal. They'll protect you when times get hard. But sometimes, laddie, a dog goes bad. They don't guard the flock, they feed on it. And in those times, you got a choice. Run away, or send for men like me. Now this dog, this dog needs putting down. And this here -" he motioned with his axe "- is how we do it."

The axe struck home.

The old man looked at Cersei, Tywin, Mace Tyrell and the rest of the court. "Now, you all might be thinking to yourselves that you hold all the power in the world. That you are above the laws of gods and men. But let me tell you this: there is nothing that a man and an axe can't cut down, if his will is strong enough."

Tyrion stood on the docks. His ship was leaving soon. His father had agreed that perhaps it was best he left King's Landind for the nonce - while his trial had exonerated him, the situation at court was still too tense. The Red Viper had suggested Dorne as a refuge, and Tyrion had taken him up on the offer, despite his misgivings.

"What are you waiting for, laddie? Isn't that your ship?"

Tyrion looked at the old man who had saved him. He tried to speak, but once again, words failed him.

The old man smiled. "Be on your way, little man. Our paths will be going in different directions from here."

Tyrion finally managed to speak. "Where will you go?"

The old man shrugged. "Heading north. But who knows where I'll stop along the way. I hear there's plenty of folk that need help, what with the war."

Tyrion stared. "But there are armies for that. What could you do as one man?"

The old man laughed. "Don't you get it, laddie? One man can face a million if he has to. All he needs is courage - and a code. I'll never walk away from someone who needs help. And as long as there are wolves attacking the lambs, there'll be men - aye, and women - who will stand up to oppose them."

The old man turned to leave. "Farewell, laddie. And may the Source bless your paths."

Tyrion watched him go.


End file.
